Discourse
by lareepqg
Summary: With the ball over and most of her suitors leaving, Jane finds Gunther's poem shoved hastily under her door. When Jane goes in search of her would-be-suitor, Lady Turnkey gives her some very welcome news. Another contribution to our story game.


_A/N: This story is a part of a series being written by the Jane and the Dragon fanfiction. A complete list of stories can be found in my profile. Now with hyperlinks!_

 _So we're all up to speed: the ball is over, Gunther's suspicions and insecurities are mounting, and in a desperate attempt to make sense of it all, he slips another poem under Jane's door. The next morning, Lady Turnkey informs Jane she is not accepting Algernon's suit. Jane is, understandably, stoked._

* * *

 _Free!_

 _She was free!_

Euphoria buzzed sweetly through her veins.

Lightness itself, Jane darted through the forest. The trees stretched outwards away from her pounding feet, the brush bowing in deference to her happiness. The flowers however, the flowers did not shy away. Having defied the scorching sun by resting in the dappled shade of the forest, the delicate blossoms instead turned their tawny faces towards her as she rushed by.

They bobbed in happy recognition of her joy.

Arms and legs pumping, Jane ran without the dark worry which had burdened her for so long. Her soul soared, lighter than it had been _months_.

Free.

The relief was enormous.

Deliverance from the wretched, miserable, _crushing_ promise of a purposeless, empty future.

 _Free!_

The knowledge shone with such intensity Jane was helpless to contain it.

Free.

It did not matter where her feet took her. She did not care how long her legs ran. There would be no more forced dinners, no more awkward socializations, no more insipid courtiers, no more stupid, _stupid_ dresses or unbearable balls.

Well, except for _one._

Jane gave a hoot of delight. Her mother insisted Jane let down the distasteful Algernon herself.

An errand Jane would enjoy _immensely._

She would be polite, of course. Jane had no desire to impinge her family's honor, and as a rule she did not lend to pettines. But Algernon? _Algernon?_ _Oh,_ she would secretly relish watching that saurian smile slip off his Olympian features.

With a quick shake of her head, Jane banished the rotted Algernon from her mind.

There were finer things to think about.

 _Like the deeply creased parchment tucked safe to her breast._

Not caring where she was going, Jane ducked under low branches, hopped over protruding roots, lept to the sky in graceless style.

She could almost believe she could fly.

Now _that_ was a funny notion. A laugh threatened to burst forth. She let it, along with an unlady-like snort or two. Without the month's tightness cinching around her stomach, her ribs, her very _throat_ , Jane had breath enough for both. Besides, who would hear her discordant laughter out here?

 _Fly._

 _Honestly._

As it was, Jane _did_ fly. Nearly daily, in fact.

And now, thanks to her mother's fickle nature - _and perhaps the queen's subtle intervention?_ \- Jane would continue to. Wrap herself around the warmth of her best friend and launch themselves into the azure expanse to fly on and on…

 _Free._

 _DRAGON! Just wait until Greenlips hears!_

New laughter tumbled forth. Maybe she would wait until Algernon left, to tell Dragon, lest he decide to give the noble a roasting.

Red-faced and panting from exertion, Jane stumbled out of the treeline into a meadow. The sudden openness was startling, the light blinding. Jane's legs halted their motion before the rest of her registered the stop, almost pitching her forward.

 _What? Where?_

Of course.

 _OF COURSE_ she would come here.

There, not a hundred steps from where she had emerged from the undergrowth in an ungraceful clamor of whipping branches and fleeing birds, was Gunther. He stared at her like she was some crazed lunatic. Perhaps he had heard her cackling in the trees?

Of course.

Unfettered by the restraints of this morning, her feet had carried her unbidden, straight to the crux of her heart.

* * *

It was no surprise.

After all, Jane _had_ been looking for Gunther before her mother had stopped her. Searching for him to ask, no _demand_ an answer for the...the _thing_ he had laid at her doorstep. The begging, pleading entreaty which he had slipped under her door while she was at dinner.

Jane had been completely unprepared for its contents.

She had sat there, stunned. The twinges in her chest tightening, fluttering in syncopated cadence to the thrumming in her ears. She was moved, really. Awed by the secret corners of his heart. Struck dumb with the depth of his feeling.

 _Could it be true?_ Her feelings were not one-sided, but returned? She had suspected, _but..._ Not just returned, but perhaps felt more keenly, more deeply than her own confused sentiments?

It was...it was hard to think about. Hard to focus her thoughts for any sort of meaningful contemplation as they pinged around in furious disorder until they settled on - _Gunther loved her._

Gunther...loved...her.

Jane re-read the poem, her eyes drinking the verses as though her soul were _parched._

Jane was elated. She was flattered. Humbled. She was...was overcome with a sense of familiarity.

Had she not received…? It fell heavy into her stomach. _She had._

It had taken her a full hour of digging through the detritus of her room to find the other poem. The one she had so _carelessly_ tossed aside without a second thought or care.

Wide eyes and sinking heart saw the same looping patterns and harsh, desperate scratches of his letters. Saw with horrible confirmation a poorly drawn sigil at the bottom. A moon, eclipsed by a blazing sun.

Her heart, newly formed and bolstered by Gunther's passionate scribbles, _shattered._ Fractured at her own arrogance as she read of his shadowed existence, his dying world, his secret garden, his...

 _A thorn._

Jane was a thorn.

Gunther had compared Jane to a thorn.

 _A THORN!?_

Even in the throes of love and the depths of despair, the maggot was still amazingly, quintessentially, _himself_. It boggled the mind.

A thorn, _indeed._

Jane knows she's being purposefully witless. Stubbornly, purposefully ignorant - because this realization is too much, too much. It's a means of defense, protection from her own guilty insecurities. Jane is completely overwhelmed with his honesty, her own emotions forcing her to miss the mark.

She's probably not even seeing the correct target.

It takes physical effort to finish the poem. Then, with careful survey, she re-reads them both. Scholar, she is _not_. The words, the images they evoke, the feelings behind them… they are almost out of her depth.

While clearly written by the same hand, created by the same beating core, they are so intrinsically _different,_ it is as night and day. Afraid she's misunderstood, Jane read them again, and again.

 _What had happened?_

Had she done something to lose his faith?

How could one person sound hopeful yet dejected all at once? The fervent declaration, which laid his soul asunder and rent hers to tatters. It was beautiful. It was aching. It was open, honest, and above all things, a _farewell._

 _To hell with that._

Thorn or not, Jane was not one to be removed without a _by your leave_.

She is also blisteringly, searingly, _radiantly_ angry.

Angry at his secrecy, angry at her casual disregard of the first poem, angry at her own obtuseness, angry at the entire _damned_ situation.

And why, _WHY_ was he so bloody _certain_ his feelings were not returned? Were their years of bickering banter irrefutable proof that they were indeed mismatched _?_

She'd wrest an answer from him if it meant dragging him behind a galloping horse.

With careful reverence, Jane folded the letter, hiding it in her tunic. She pressed it close to her heart. It was time they held discourse. Jane would ask her questions and perhaps _finally,_ they would talk. Determined, she left her tower in search of her would-be suitor.

She had not found him, naturally.

Jane searched every darkened nook, every hidden cranny of the castle proper without success. If she hadn't been so frustrated, so worried, so sarding _mad,_ she would have laughed. "Running, like a thief from the turnkey."

 _Idiot. And here I thought poetry was not supposed to be literal?_

Exhausted and emotionally spent, Jane plodded up the steps of her tower. What had she hoped to accomplish anyway? An apologetic acknowledgement of their mutual regard where the squires shake hands, part ways, and Jane is married off to the fair Algernon?

Disheartened, Jane threw herself on her bed and cried herself to sleep.

* * *

Thus Jane had been searching, albeit dejectedly, when Lady Turnkey waylaid Jane with the wonderful, the glorious, the _divine_ news.

Searching, when she lost the object of her focus and began running through the forest, suddenly _free._

To then, _of course,_ stumble ungracefully out of the trees with bits of the forest clinging to her wild hair.

Gunther looked at her quizzically. How long had she been standing here, staring at him?

 _No matter. Onward._

Standing at the edge of the meadow, Jane is struck with uncertainty. The sudden sweep of emotion, the switch from high to low, ...it made her head spin. Where was the exhilaration from before? Where was her confidence from last night?

Gunther watched as she put her hands on her knees to take a few gulps of air. It's a farce, of course. Jane is no more in need of extra breath now then she was a few minutes ago. What she _needs_ is to brace herself. To screw up her own courage to take that _first step_ , to plant one foot in front of the other, to make her way to _him_.

Straightening, Jane beamed a false grin and jogged over to where Gunther stood, immobile, bow in hand. He did not return her smile.

"Ah, Gunther, here you are. I have been meaning to talk to you."

"About what, Jane?" Gunther's expression is puzzling. Jane can see him trying, failing, and trying again to raise that odd invisible armor he hides behind. It drops again. _He looks like I'm about to destroy him._

 _Oh._

Because that is exactly what he _is_ waiting for. Rejection, heartache, despair.

The responsibility threatens to bury her. The culpability of it. To hold the entirety of someone's heart, _their being,_ in her hands to do with as she will? It muddles her brain. She rushed to reassure him, to explain, to _free_ him from his worry-

"Mother says I am not to marry, but instead send Algernon packing!"

It was not what she meant to say. Based on his expression, it was not what Gunther was expecting to hear, either.

Breathless, Jane rushed on. "Is not it amazing? She had already rejected the other suitors -most of them are gone now anyway- but that awful Algernon is still following me around, popping up everywhere with his false looks and empty words and clammy wandering fingers. Completely unable to take a _bloody_ hint, or even an outright rejection. No doubt I will have to shove him off with the tip of my dagger," she's rambling now, "But no matter! Mother says he is not good enough- none of them are good enough. Worthless prospects when _clearly_ I can do better, and I to top it all off shall have the singular pleasure of telling the ratter to bugger off!"

Jane beamed. Gunther...Gunther did _not._ Relief, happiness, hope, disgust, anger, hurt, dejection, resignation, despair all crossed his face so quickly, Jane can barely register them all. How could one person feel so many things in a few short seconds?

"Is it _not_ wonderful?" She asked. He didn't respond, instead taking a deep breath to tilt his head back and stare wide-eyed at the sky. What is he _thinking?_ Could he not just tell her? Could she just ask?

"So you see the impossibility of it? How stupid and pointless it is?"

"I do not under-" she started, but is cut off.

"If _Lord Algernon_ is not good enough to court you, then surely the attentions of a lowly _squire_ would be unwanted."

"But you cannot possibly compare yourself to him, he is-"

"No, I could not. Algernon is landed, with money, title, and breeding. I am the son of a despised merchant with questionable parentage."

What did she care for such things? He cannot possibly think _any_ of those things carry weight? _Clearly_ he has missed the fact that she is _here_ , talking to _him_. Not _Lord_ Algernon or any of those other ninnies. "You misunderstand, you have other things to offer-"

"No, Jane. I do not misunderstand. I have nothing to offer you." His voice brooked no argument. "Nothing." He looked empty. _Resigned._ "...nothing."

He began to turn, clearly intending to leave.

Frustrated, Jane stomped her foot. "Would you _please_ stop interrupting me? Is that not for me to decide? You would leave? LEAVE? Of all the ridiculous, cowardly-" Gunther's expression shuttered. "Am I not able to make my own decisions as to who is or is not good enough? I do not appreciate it, you deciding for me. You are no better than my _mother_ and have half mind to cast you off, because at this moment you are being a right donkey."

With that, Gunther's invisible armor _slams_ back into place. _Damnit._ Jane kicked herself. Could she do nothing right? Could she not say _anything_ without making a mess of it? She had come her to talk to him, not drive him farther away.

"You are quite right, Jane." Gunther uncrossed his arms giving her a cool little bow. It smacked of defeat. "I will take my leave."

 _WHAT?_

Since when did _Gunther,_ fight fire with cool manners? Where were his biting insults, his stinging retorts? _That_ Gunther she could deal with.

"Goodbye, Jane." Spinning on his heel, Gunther strode away.

"What? No!"

She would _not_ let him walk away. Let him retreat to hide until he worked up the courage to _actually_ leave her forever. _Who the hell did he think he was? Who did he think she was?_

 _A thorn?_ A bloodied spine from a thistle, torn from damaged flesh and left to rot?

Jane launched herself at his retreating form. She had been aiming for his back but instead managed a clumsy grasp around his waist. Staggering under the sudden weight of her forward momentum, Gunther totters forward.

Jane took the opportunity to climb higher.

"Oof! Jane get off!" he grabbed at one of her wrists, which had snaked around his neck to join with the other under under his arm. "JANE! OFF!" Yanking hard, he tried to release her hold. Jane responded by locking her legs about his waist. "This is ridiculous. Jane…Jane! _JANE, please._ Stop _._ "

Managing to unlock the fingers clutched under his arm, Gunther jerked forward in a futile attempt to shrug her off. It is pointless. Jane's determination is _far_ too strong. Gunther will _not_ turn away from her. He will _not_ run to hide. He absolutely, positively, is forbidden from saying _goodbye._ She brings her free hand up to latch tightly about his neck.

There was an advantage to being smaller and faster.

"Childish? I am being childish? _ME?_ Which of us running away? _WHO said_ _goodbye?_ " She spit out the last word. "I am trying to talk to you and you were going to leave! _LEAVE!_ " Jane used the hand snaked around his neck to clasp the fabric of his shirt.

"Get off, Jane!" He grunted, frustrated. Jane can feel him getting angry. _Good. Anything is better than his empty look of defeat._ "I am bigger than you! You cannot hope to win."

"Win?" Jane scoffed. "This isn't about winning. Who is trying to win? I just want to tip you over!"

 _This_ was something she was used to. _This_ was common, comfortable ground. The safe security of them _fighting._ It was so terribly, unequivocally _stupid._ Why did it have to come to this, a juvenile bout of grappling in the middle of some abandoned meadow? Jane's breath came in hard pants. _Could they not just...bloody...well...talk?_

The next few minutes were spent in a comical display of flailing limbs and muffled curses. Jane wanted to be angry, _needed_ the molten burn of her righteous fury, but was unable to muster it.

With both hands Gunther reached to his side, taking a few steps in a circle, in hopes of grabbing a fistful of her own tunic. Reminded of a dog chasing its own tail, Jane found herself laughing between breaths.

It hurt less than crying.

"Jesus, Jane, you are worse than Jester." He huffed, struggling to shake her off. He spun around again.

"Oh, giving Jester piggy rides are we? I feel like that needs some explanation." Losing her grip, Jane slid down, setting hard on the ground. Instead of admitting defeat, Jane crawled forward, wrapping herself around his leg.

 _Let's see him stomp off now!_

Gunther tries, taking a few lurching steps.

He is right, of course. This _is_ childish. She did _not_ care. He would talk to her, and talk to her _now._

If not, he could certainly listen. Suffer through her bumbling, muddled, jumbled attempts at making him understand.

Perhaps she should write _him_ a poem.

 _Ha! Never!_

Jane threw out a foot, hooking it around his free ankle. Thrown off balance, Gunther hopped - once, twice- only to collapse hard on his side. He wheezed a bit, the wind knocked out of him.

"Ha! Too easy! You're out of practice." Giving no quarter, Jane let go of his leg and scrambled roughly up his prostrate form. She sat hard on his stomach.

"Do you yield?"

Gunther looked away, refusing to meet her eyes. _Louse._

"Gunther, I believe I asked you a question." He stopped struggling. They sat in silence for a moment. Tired of waiting, Jane gave a sharp poke to the fading bruise on his collar bone. "Do you yield?" Frowning, he dragged his gaze up to hers.

"I could easily knock you into the dirt, maggot."

 _Hazzah! A response!._

"Har! Yes, you could. But not without hurting me, which I know you will not do."

"What makes you so sure?" he asked. His eyes narrowed. Jane raised one eyebrow and gave him sly smirk. She could wait.

"Yes, I yield." Gunther rolled his eyes. Jane felt a soft satisfaction settle in her chest. He looked cowed, but not defeated. Yet.

"Good. Let's start over. Gunther, I am sorry for yelling at you. You are many things, but you are not a donkey."

Surprised, Gunther let out a bark of laughter. Unable to _truly_ yield, he tried another tact.

"Jane, we aren't in the training yard. This is...improper."

 _What?_

She glanced down at their position.

 _Ah, yes…_

Jane wasn't _entirely_ innocent. Her formative years were spent with a troop of smelly old knights. Knights who, while usually tight-lipped in deference to her gender and station, were still no better than gossiping laundry women.

Lurking was a _most_ useful skill to have.

In any case, Jane was quite aware of the impropriety of their current...position. Jane understood of how their grappling would look to an outsider. It did not bother her in the least.

Call it...a strategic decision.

Gunther however...based on his tight-lipped scowl, he seemed most _uncomfortable._

A small smile twitched at the edges of her mouth. Perhaps it was an advantage she could press at a later time. If she could get him to stop running, that is.

With what she hoped was _passable_ virtuous ignorance, Jane cocked her head in feigned confusion. She gestured to the tall grass around them.

"Do not worry, Gunther. We are quite alone out here and no one can see us."

His half-hearted attempts to push her off stopped as he stilled. It was difficult not to giggle at the panicked expression on his face.

It really was unfair to tease him. _Really._

It was however, a little fun.

Rather than following that line of thought too far, Jane changed the subject.

"You look terrible," she mused aloud.

He _did_ look terrible. This close, it was painfully obvious _how_ terrible. How had she not seen it? Her previous humor faded.

Reaching forward, Jane brushed a few dark strands of hair out of Gunther's face, using the motion as an excuse to examine him closely.

His eyes seemed shadowed. Deep rings, smudged gray with exhaustion. There were new creases in his brow and faint lines of worry had etched themselves around his mouth. He looked...starved. Hungry yes, there was a gauntness about him that was unusual, but there was something more. A hopelessness which crawled behind the gray of his eyes.

Even at rest, pressed here against the ground, Gunther looked anxious, haggard. As though he were worrying some internal wound with incessant absentmindedness. It had been several days since he had last shaved. Rather than making him look older, it it emphasized the hollowness of his cheeks.

He somehow seemed... _less_.

It made her heart clench.

"When was the last time you slept or ate something?" Worry tinged her voice. "I haven't seen you at the table. Lord in heaven, Gunther, you look like dragon dung warmed over."

"Charming." Gunther's voice was rife with sarcasm.

What, did he want a _compliment_?

"Truly Gunther, you do not look well. Can you not tell me what is wrong?" Suddenly his anxiety is back, because yet again Jane has once again chosen the wrong thing to say, to ask. But how can it be? Isn't that why she sought him out in the first place? Jane feels him tense beneath her, and that old coldness start to settle behind the grayness of his eyes.

"None of that, thank you very much." Jane fluttered her hand in front of his face, as though she were shooing a particularly persistent wasp. Startled, he met her eyes.

"None of what?" He asked, perplexed.

"If you do not wish to discuss your eating habits, then that is your prerogative. However, you will not retreat into whatever metal box you have constructed for yourself. I do not have one, myself- so you will stay right out here for just a few moments, if you please."

Gunther pulled a sour face. "I am sure I have no idea what you are talking about. Perhaps you have finally gone stark, raving mad?" He made a feeble attempt to shift her off. Jane let him raise her up a little then sat down heavily- eliciting a slight grunt of pain.

"I am thinking that is bad for your injured ribs. So perhaps you should just hold still for a moment?"

"My ribs are _fine._ You are just terribly heavy."

"How rude. Gunther, do be quiet." her voice was cheery, but she could feel the nervousness catching in her throat.

 _Now or never._

Before he could formulate another retort, Jane reached into her tunic and pulled out a battered piece of parchment. After their tussle, it looked a bit worse for wear.

"Did you write this?"

Gunther's eyes went wide.

"I, well, I," he stuttered. _He looks a bit like a trapped animal._ "I, that is to say…" He cleared his throat.

"It's an easy enough question, dung brain. Did you, or did you _not,_ write me two lovely letters filled with heart-wrenching poetry, send me several thoughtful gifts, and an extraordinarily large bouquet of bloody _dangerous_ flowers?" When he didn't answer, she unfolded the parchment to recite the last few lines.

"Only I can call you frog rider, And only you can call me beef brain." She skipped ahead, humming the next few parts until "...Take me, need me, I am yours." Jane's voice dropped, a whispered caress. "Dearest, sweetest Jane."

With each line, Gunther turns a deeper red. It's adorable, really. Enchanting to see how _horrified_ he is to hear his words recited back to him. It strikes Jane afresh how much daring it had taken for him to write the words in the first place. How much bold unflinching _courage_ it took to actually give them to her.

 _But why, WHY did he keep running away?_ It makes her dizzy. What had she done to deserve such devotion? Such fear? Her musings from last night threaten to overwhelm her. Surely of the two of them, she is the one who is unworthy.

Jane wished she had one tenth his bravery. One _hundredth_ his ability to mold her jumbled thoughts and feelings into sensible patterns - never mind sculpt them into lines of spoken art. She grasped for a means to express all this, it isn't fair for her to let him suffer, to belittle his emotions. Instead her treacherous mouth settled on:

"You blush most fetchingly, Gunther."

If anything, he turned _more_ red. She loved him all the more for it.

"...Gunther?" she prompted.

"Yes." He almost spits it out. _At least he answered._

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I wrote the poem."

"Why?" Jane cocked her head in question.

"Because," Gunther sighed resignedly, "because, I love you." He looked trapped again. _Ensnared._

Now it is Jane's turn to roll her eyes. She gave him a quick _thwap_ on the forehead with the folded parchment.

"Yes, idiot. I know that. But why did you do all _this?_ " Jane waved the letter at him, then gestured vaguely about her person. The greaves, the wrist guards, her dagger.

"I…." There he stopped, swallowing thickly.

 _Honestly._ For someone so wordy, whether it was a stinging insult or beautiful prose, he certainly knew how to clam up when it was _least_ convenient.

It was _most_ tiring.

She waited.

When it became clear he wasn't going to continue, Jane leaned forward until her forehead brushed his. Unbound and filled with little bits of grass and other debris, her hair fell about them. It formed a back-lit crimson barrier, muffling the sounds around them. Time slowed, and their world narrowed. Gunther's pupils dilated in the dimmed light.

"At some point, Gunther Breech, you and I are going to have to learn how to communicate."

With a quick smile and a gentle laugh, Jane rolled away.

"If that is all, I shall be off then." She was perhaps twenty steps away when Gunther stood, calling after her.

"I did it because I love you, and could not find the words. I did it because you deserve better than to be turned into something you are not, only to be courted by simple, bumbling halfwits who know nothing about who you are or what you want. Because you warrant more than hair ribbons and the slow death of a loveless marriage." His voice cracked. "To be courted by someone who wants _you._ Someone who knows you, and loves you for who you are."

Gunther's image wavered as tears threatened to fall. Her throat felt tight.

"Because I do," he continued. He ran his hand nervously through his hair. "Love you for who you are. I love how you are smart and determined and kind. I love how you value duty and honor above all else. I respect you for your honesty and loyalty. I even love your stubbornness and your damnable _pride._ "

"Anything else?" she queried.

"Probably." His hands dropped to his sides. He looked spent.

"Champion." Jane put her hands on her hips. "I look forward to being courted by you then, Gunther Breech."

Confusion, exasperation, and finally annoyance flickered across his face. "Jane Turnkey, I have written you poetry, showered you with gifts, bloodied my hands gathering flowers. What more do you want?"

Smiling softly, Jane moved to stand before him.

Jane looked up into the turbulent gray of his eyes. With gentle, steady hand she reached up to cup his rough cheek. His stubble pricked against her palm. When had he gotten so tall? His shoulders so wide? When had they gone from bickering children to this? Two almost lovers standing on a precipice?

Gunther's breath hitched as he leaned into her touch. Suddenly feeling unsteady, Jane lightly pressed her other hand to his solid chest. Slowly, _slowly,_ she leaned close. Their faces were almost touching, his breath on her cheek. His familiar scent surrounded her. He smelled like this morning's soap, leather, and most importantly, _Gunther_.

Before she could think too much, before she ruined the moment with a careless word, or fall pretty to her own insecurities, Jane pressed herself against him.

With infinite tender care, Jane pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth.

"You, of course."

Then quickly, before the embarrassment of her boldness could overwhelm her, before Gunther could process what has happened, let alone _react_ , Jane slipped out of his reach. Stepping lightly, Jane walked to where Gunther had abandoned his bow. Jane picked it up, and slung it over her shoulder.

"Now that you are unarmed," Jane smiled sweetly, "I wanted to tell you how much I love you, Gunther Breech. I love you because there is no one more aggravating, or annoying, or frustrating." Gunther favored her with a scowl. He appeared a bit addled. "I love you, beef brain, because there is no one more kind, or brave, or loyal, or deserving." Jane took a step backwards, "Except for me of course."

With a wild _whoop!_ and hop in the air, Jane sprinted for the treeline, bow in hand.

She did not look back.

If she had, she would have seen Gunther's own burdens lift, his armor fall away - freeing him from his self-doubt. After a few thundering heartbeats of shocked reverie, Gunther smiled and gave chase.

* * *

Thwarted yet _again._ It is maddening, the incongruity of it. To lose yet another chance at achieving his goal.

The _indignity._

How did this keep happening? What gentle magic blessed the stupid red-headed bitch?

No matter, he would bring her to heel. Algernon always got what he wanted. If he could not convince her parents, then he would leave them no choice. To hell with discretion. He would _force_ the issue if need be. Had planned to, liquid assistance be damned.

He'd seen her run out of the castle, skipping and waving to everyone she passed. Her innocence was precious. A treasure. How desperately he wanted to take it from her. To see the fear replace the hope in her eyes when she realized no one could save her. _Would_ save her.

She'd been easy enough to follow, crashing through the forest. Then later, so absorbed with that base-born, unbalanced _nothing_ of a man, they'd never thought to _look._ To see him standing there, in darkening shadows of the forest.

Then, _then…_ when she had stepped up to kiss the worthless squire...his vision constricted to a singular black-rimmed point.

Algernon hissed.

No matter, she would still be his. It was a matter of principle. A matter of _pride. HE_ was deserving. _He was entitled. HIM. LORD_ Algernon.

He would defeat his foes. Grind them to dust. He would _triumph._

Jane would submit. One way or another.

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _Kyra: Hold it, hold it. What is this? Are you trying to trick me? Where's the sports? **lowers voice** Is this a kissing book?  
_ _Laree: Wait, just wait.  
_ _Kyra: Well, when does it get good? When do we kill Algernon?  
_ _Laree: Keep your shirt on, and let's all write._


End file.
